


Ol' Faithful

by lentilchip



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, I just wanted to write about dogs OK., M/M, One Shot, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentilchip/pseuds/lentilchip
Summary: Here's me projecting all my longing and fascination for dogs onto one Connor, model RK800. It gets a little Too Real© at one point but it's mostly marshmallow fluff.





	Ol' Faithful

Connor feels a wetness against his cheek as he boots up at 8:47 in the morning. After the two seconds designated to his startup process, he blinks to adjust the focus in his lenses. He registers the pressure of Hank’s arm slung across his chest, feels the heat radiating off of him, tastes the dryness of his own mouth and calculates the air humidity, out of habit.

In front of him stands Sumo, licking his speckled snout eagerly, breath coming in warm puffs on Connor’s face. Upon noticing he has Connor’s attention, he whines a little and takes a few antsy steps, his big body wriggling impatiently.

”The little shit wants breakfast.”

Hank’s voice carries the raspiness and annoyance of someone who’d just woken up in a way they didn’t much care to be woken up in. He rustles behind Connor, stretching his stiff limbs. Connor feels Hank’s yawn as a gust of warm air against his neck.

Connor looks past Sumo, out into the hallway. ”How did he get the door open?”

Hanks groans and rolls over.

”Beats me. What time is it, anyway?”

As Hank moves, Sumo whines again, loudly this time, and puts one of his big paws on Connor’s side of the bed, claws scratching a little at Connor’s skin. He notices Sumo bracing himself, and swiftly calculates the path he’s about to set off to next.

”Wait wait wait, don’t let him jump up on the-,” Hank starts, but it’s too late - Sumo has already put his other paw up to hoist himself up onto the mattress, with about as much grace and mobility as a small cow jumping a cattle fence. The bedsprings groan under the added 170 pound weight. Connor is jostled by the force. Hank is fully awake and bristling.

”Aw hell, why’d you gotta do that for, Sumo?” Standing across both of them, balancing carefully on equal parts mattress and human/android limbs, Sumo wags his tail, looking entirely pleased with himself. Despite the tone of his voice, Hank reaches up to grab at Sumo’s sides with both hands, ruffling his fur. ”You that hungry? Is your big gut that rumbly, huh?”

Sumo gives a deep, excited bark and takes a few wobbly steps, balancing currently on the bed, Hank’s chest and Connor’s lower back simultaneously. It’s not very comfortable, but Connor doesn’t mind. He likes Sumo.

A quick internet search informs Connor that scratches and soft voices would actually serve to encourage rather than prevent ’bad behavior’ in dogs. If Hank didn’t want Sumo up on the bed, he shouldn’t be doing what he currently is doing: holding Sumo’s face between his hands and cooing at him lovingly. Still, Connor decides not to tell Hank this, seeing as he just woke up. And it is Hank’s dog, after all.

”Ok, enough cuddles. Get off of me you big oaf, go on, off!” Hank pats Sumo’s flank, two big _thumps_ as Sumo stirs, shifting his weight to step gingerly off the bed, quickly turning around to stare expectantly at Hank.

”Might as well get up too, huh?” Hank brushes his knuckles lightly across Connor’s elbow. Connor shivers a little at the touch, and looks over at Hank. Something whirrs inside him as he thinks.

”It’s only five minutes until I usually wake you, anyway. We could go off-schedule, a little bit,” he smiles. 

Hank huffs a small laugh as he gets up, grabs for his sweatpants on the floor, and pulls them on, stumbling a little. Sumo pads next to him as he walks out the door, bumping against his legs excitedly. As Connor reaches for his own pants, folded neatly atop a chair next to the bed, he hears Hank swear from the hallway. Connor makes an educated guess: Sumo probably almost tripped Hank just now.

As Connor leaves the bedroom, he hears the rustling of plastic and Sumo’s nails clicking impatiently against the kitchen tile. He rounds the corner of the hallway to see Hank fiddling with the buttons on his coffee maker with one hand, while balancing a 15 pound bag of dog food on the countertop. Beneath him, Sumo pads to-and-fro.

Connor, having nothing to make for himself breakfast-wise, and no need to eat it either, plops down on the sofa and folds his hands in his lap. He looks at Sumo sitting expectantly in front of his bowl now, barely holding himself back as Hank zips open the bag of dog food (high-protein, enriched with minerals to prevent hip and joint damage). When Hank bends down to fill the elevated food bowl, Sumo is practically trembling with anticipation.

”Can’t believe we don’t have automatic dog feeders in this universe,” Hank grumbles to himself as he shakes the bag, but Connor’s auditory processors pick it up. ”Half the world’s runs on auto-pilot and here I am spilling _’Qibble’_ like some- Go on, bone apple tit, dummy.”

At Hank’s words, Sumo happily digs in, loud crunching drowning out the spluttering of the coffee maker. At the kitchen counter next to him, Hank has placed a bag of whole-wheat bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a banana. Connor watches him prepare a sandwich next to Sumo chomping away at his food. As Hank impatiently takes a huge bite of the unfinished sandwich, Connor considers the widespread idea that dogs resemble their owners, and vice versa. Connor thinks there might some truth to that.

Having finished his breakfast, Sumo trots over to sit down with a small _'boof'_ in front of Connor on the sofa, looking at him with beady, imploring eyes. Connor tilts his head a little. Sumo tilts his head too.

Behind them, Hank is rustling around in the kitchen, still putting his finishing touches to his own breakfast. He’d gotten better at including other food items besides coffee in the morning, after Connor’s well-intentioned and often-distributed advice. It was doing him good.

Connor’s eyebrows rise up slowly as he lifts his hand. Sumo snuffles a little, opens his mouth and starts panting. He leans into Connor’s touch as he starts petting his head, tongue lolling.

”You gotta scratch him under his chin, that’s his favorite spot,” comes Hank voice from the kitchen, muffled between bites of peanut butter-and-banana-sandwich.

Connor glances back at Hank, then to Sumo, then moves his fingers to the described spot, scritching gently. When he does, Sumo’s tail thumps happily against the carpet, stirring up dust.

Connor smiles.

”You’re really into that dog, huh?”

Connor smiles wider.

”Am I picking up on a hint of jealousy, or is something wrong with my sensors?” he muses, shooting Hank a glance while still scratching Sumo, using both hands now.

Hank huffs and takes a big sip of coffee, searching for something on the kitchen counter. He pulls out yesterday’s newspaper tablet, makes a face like he's mulling something over, then tucks it under his arm while balancing his plate and mug.

”He’s fascinating,” Connor turns back to pet Sumo again, scritching the furry patch between his eyes. ”By breeder standards, he’s an impressive specimen. Considering the list of problems that comes with large dogs, Sumo’s doing very well for his age. And,” As if picking up on the praise, Sumo gives Connor’s palm a lick. ”He’s sweet.”

”You’re giving him way more credit than he deserves, you know,” Hank huffs as he comes to sit down next to Connor. Sumo jerks his head to sniff the air, trailing the scent to Hank’s plate. In one swift and clearly practiced move, Hank lifts it up and points a firm, admonishing finger at Sumo, who licks his nose and retreats, dejectedly.

The three sit in silence for a while, Hank swiping through the news between bites on his sandwich and Connor still petting Sumo, who thoroughly enjoys the attention.

”He was about this big when we first got him.”

Connor looks up as Hank puts the tablet in his lap and holds his hands out, estimating: Connor registers the space between Hank’s palms as 15 and a half inches. He decides to round it up to 16, give or take.

”I could even hold him back then, could you imagine? Doing that now would bust my back for sure.” Hank sets down the tablet to pick up his mug, that said ”Don’t Talk to Me Until My Cup of Coffee Has Had ITS Cup of Coffee.” Connor thinks it’s a dated joke, but finds it amusing anyway.

”How long have you had him for?”

Connor looks back at Sumo. He knows he’s treading on sensitive grounds, asking about the past, but he still wants to know. 

”Got him off a friend at the precinct, one of her aunt’s friend’s co-worker’s cousins or something. They were in a rush to get rid of ’em, him and his litter, so I figured it was better than the pound.” Connor senses there’s more to that story, but decides not to pry.

”What did he look like as a puppy?” he asks instead.

Hank swallows his coffee, then stops to think, thumbing at the porcelain ear of the mug.

”Well, he was smaller. Goofy-looking, big paws and ears. Real cute.”

Connor tries to picture it. He does a quick online search for ’Saint Bernard puppies’ to get a general idea. They’re very cute.

”I actually-" Hank’s lip rests against the rim of the mug, forehead furrowed in thought. ”I might have pictures somewhere, hold on a sec.” He sets down the mug and walks over to the bookcases in the living room, crouching down to run his fingers along the spines.

”There we go." He pulls out an old photo album. Connor notes that it’s old in both senses of the world — it’s an early version of the first digital photo albums, not as seamlessly intergrated as the current ones. Hank blows at the old album theatrically, and coughs a little when a small cloud of dust does rise up off of the pages.

Hank sits back on the couch, slightly turned away as he cracks open the album, thumbing the paper, scanning quickly through the pages. Connor tries his best not to peek.

”Here.” Hank turns around and points at one of the glossy photos attached to the grainy texturised sheet. Connor peers down.

Next to Hank’s index finger is a tiny, brown and white lump of fur, looking into the camera with big, black eyes. It’s hard to imagine that the panting, drooling animal in front of them could have ever been so small, Connor thinks to himself. He compares the picture of Sumo against the puppies from the earlier image search. Sumo was a lot cuter than any of them, Connor decides.

Hank flips past a big bundle of pages, quickly now. Connor catches short glimpses of smiling faces, Christmas decorations, tufts of brown hair. His facial records track and match the faces immediately, but Connor says nothing. Neither does Hank. Helpfully, Connor points at the next picture, that shows Hank beaming at the camera, posing with a small, wet bundle of foam in his hands.

”When was this taken?”

Hank laughs a little, fingers stroking at his beard.

”That’s from when he could still fit in one of those little things,” Hank points to the blue plastic tub peeking through all the suds of soap. ”Don’t remember how he got himself so dirty, probably rolled around in some crap or something.”

Connor looks down at the picture, smiling softly. On the picture next to it is Sumo, toweled off, twice as big from how his fur’s standing on end. The metal on his name tag shines through the white and brown tufts.

”Why ’Sumo’?”

At the sound of his name, Sumo’s head swirls over to look at Connor, jowls wiggling, a few droplets of drool falling to the floor. He looks over to Hank, then the half-eaten sandwich, then back to Hank again.  
”Why name him that, you mean?”

Connor nods. Sumo huffs as he realises he wasn’t getting any food, and leans back into Connor’s grip again.

”I don’t know. Figured he’d grow up to be a big dog, so he needed a name that fit. Something robust, you know.” Hank scratches at his beard. ”What, you don’t think it’s a good name?”

”No, it’s good. A little,” Connor searches for the appropriate word. ”- confusing, maybe. But good.”

Hank grumbles a little. ”Wasn’t me who named him though. All my ideas got shot down.” Hank trails off, thumbing at the album. ”Was probably fair though, I’m shit at names.”  
Connor searches Hank’s face. He looks wistful. With a start, he rights himself, and puts the album on the table, and the moment has passed as quickly as it came.

”Doesn’t he look like a ’Colossus’ though? Look at him, he does, right?” Hank gestures at Sumo. 

Connor blinks a few times, processing the name and the drooling, droopy dog before him.

”It’s... alright, but 'Sumo’ is better. You made a good effort, all things considered. For next time, a list of famous Saint Bernards could serve as an inspiration-”

Hank waves his hand. ”Bah, you don’t get it.” You probably would’ve voted me down back then too,” he mutters, and finishes his coffee in one swig.

Seemingly having had enough pets for one morning, Sumo gets up, shakes himself off and slowly trundles over to lie down on his cot next to the radiator. Weirdly enough, Connor misses him already, even though he’s only a few feet away.

Without something to do with his hands, Connor puts them back on his knees. He counts some of the moles on the skin there. He already knows there’s seven of them, with 52 moles in total covering his entire body. It’s quiet now. He can feel his LED spinning, processing. He counts the moles again.

”I sometimes feel like I’m not doing enough for him, you know.”

Connor looks up at Hank again. His fingers are trailing the gibberish text on the mug. He’s got some whole-wheat crumbs in his beard. He looks wistful again. Or more sad, now.

”There’s a part of me that likes to think he’s happy like this,” Hank gestures to where Sumo is currently laid out on his cot, snoozing. ”Lazing around, only getting up to eat or take a dump, but I....”

Hank wrings his hands a little, making an exasparated gesture. Connor thinks he understands.

”When he was younger, I had him do a lot more stuff. You need to train these dogs real well, real hard, you know, since they get so big. He’s a good dog, he learned fast. And now, he’s just-” He trails off.

”Well," Connor tries, ”Sumo is what can be considered a ’senior dog’. The average life expectancy for this breed is estimated to be around eight to ten years, so-”

”I know that, God, don’t remind me.” Hank sighs, making a small face. ”I’m just saying: he could do with something to look at, while we’re away, to - I don’t know, stimulate that little peanut brain of his. Even if he’s old. Make him use it for something other than sniffing his ass.”

Sumo’s paws have started twitching in his sleep, making it look like he’s digging. Or maybe running, Connor thinks. He studies Sumo’s movements as he comes up with a response.

”You know, Hank,” he begins, absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on Sumo’s paws. ”’Peanut’ actually isn’t a sufficient size reference. The standard, fully grown Saint Bernard’s brain volume, according to several pet breeders’ data, is closer to the size of a small gourd, or maybe a medium-sized cantaloupe, or-

Hank sighs again.

”Jokes aside, I don’t think you have to worry. He does get walks. A proper diet. Regular baths and grooming. Treats, sometimes. Maybe he could do with some,” Connor thinks for a second. ”- variation in terms of physical activity. That’s not that hard of a goal to set, I think.”

Hank rubs his hand over his mouth, looking over at Sumo’s still sleep-running-digging form. He huffs affirmatively before he answers.

”That’s true. And with you here now, I think he’s not as lonely. He likes you, obviously." Hank snorts. "You wouldn’t think it, but I’m not always that fun to hang around with, one on one.” Connor lips twitch up in a crooked smile, but he doesn’t feel amused.

Suddenly, Hank gets up and walks over to Sumo’s bed, huffing a little as he settles down next to him. He raises a hand, stroking across the coarse fur on Sumo’s back. Sumo makes a small sound, but doesn’t wake up.

Connor is still on the sofa. The air feels charged, suddenly. 

”At my lowest points, it...” Hank’s hands still as he searches for the words. He rarely talks about this. Connor listens intently.

”It helped, in a way. Having him there. Gave me some sort of a routine, even if it was just filling some bowls and letting the bastard out in the yard for a few minutes. Something to do, consistently, every day, even if I didn’t want to.”

Connor understands. It makes a weird sort of sense to him - he remembers the days after breaking his programming, of constantly racking his overstimulated mind for tasks to direct his energy into. Of creating habits for himself, ways to spend his day with no pressing obligations, other than what he himself wanted to do. It’s not the same, but it’s similar enough for him to sympathise.

He gets up to sit next to Hank and Sumo. Hank still looks deep in thought.

”Even if I couldn’t take care of myself, I could take care of him. And as I continued doing that, I started thinking I had enough in me to maybe... Take care of myself, too.”

He snorts a quick laugh, stroking his beard again. ”You’ve seen how well that’s going.”

Connor reaches over to take Hank’s hand, pulling it close to himself. Beneath them, Sumo stirs and wakes up, blinking and looking up at Hank with bleary eyes. Connor thumbs at Hank’s hand for a moment, LED spinning and spinning at his temple. Processing. He starts.

”Sumo’s a very smart and expressive dog. While he can’t communicate it in a way we fully understand, I think it’s not that hard to tell that he’s pleased with how things are. Right now. Currently.”

At the sound of his name, Sumo makes another small _'boof'_ and nudges his head against Hank’s other hand. Hank’s eyes soften at the gesture, and glances back at Connor, who meets his gaze and takes a moment before he continues.

”We’ve both been busy adjusting in our own way, to things in the past and things laying ahead in our future. We’re not there yet, but we’re helping each other get there. Taking turns talking about it. Maybe not reaching a solution, but at least getting the chance to process it. Get each other’s perspective on things. I’m sure you value mine. And I value yours.”

Sumo is still in the process of waking up as Connor talks, blinking slowly. Next to him, Hank's rubbing at Sumo's ears, somewhat absentmindedly.

”And you know...” Connor continues, softly stroking the rough skin of Hank’s palm, grabbing it in both hands.

”You gonna drop some dog facts on me now?” Hank sneers, but returns Connor’s grip, rubbing his thumb at a mole on the back of Connor’s hand.

”There’s actually lots of scientific evidence that proves animal companions can greatly increase both physical and mental wellbeing in humans. Especially an even-tempered, kind dog like Sumo. It’s as they say, a dog _is_ a man’s best friend, after all.”

Hank chuckles a little, eyes crinkling as he gives Sumo’s head a big pat, scratching under his chin. Connor hears Sumo’s tail thump against the floor again, and feels Hank’s warm, gentle grip on his hand.

”Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Hank sniffs a little and glances at Connor. Getting that blue yet warm gaze directed at him never fails to make Connor’s chrome alloy heart spin.

”Hell, I don’t know why people bother getting those little quote books, they could just come to you for all the big, fancy words, huh.” Behind the sarcasm is a flicker of warmth, the sweet center that Connor had slowly gotten to know existed, and quickly grown to love.

”It’s what I’m here for”, Connor replies, and shifts to lean against Hank’s shoulder. He feels Hank’s other hand come up to stroke his chin, gently.

They sit like that for a while, each one of them unsure if he’s supporting the other’s weight, or being supported by him.

It doesn’t take long for Sumo to interrupt, seemingly offended that Hank would wake him up for pets and then just stop doing it altogether. He not-so-gently nudges his head in under Hank’s hand, effectively breaking their clasp.

”Seems Sumo’s the jealous one after all”, Hank laughs, scratching behind Sumo’s ear. He revels in the attention, then hoists himself up to nudge at Hank again, licking his face. Hank splutters and pushes him away with mock disgust. Excited, Sumo wiggles around, panting insistently. 

Hank gets up too, hand trailing along Connor’s back as he moved, huffing and puffing. The touch sends sparks through the wiring beneath Connor's skin. He feels warm.

”God, my knees can’t handle sitting like this for too long. We should probably take him for a walk, that thing he’s doing right now is his little ”Big-Dump-Imminent,-Take-Me-Out”-dance.”

Connor wrinkles his nose and grins. ”You have such a way with words, Hank”.

While they both get dressed and Hank grabs Sumo’s leash, Connor places a few quick orders for dog toys online, as an afterthought. After confirming the purchases, he stops for a brief second, jacket in hand.

He then directs himself to another site, adds one tasteless, unfunny coffee mug to the cart, and places an order for that too.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I had to actually write the words "newspaper tablet" on here. I'd throw myself off David's Wild Ride if I didn't care for these two guys and their dog so much.


End file.
